


'Sorry' is not Enough

by AgapantoBlu



Series: Blood's thickness [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Be careful while reading, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 14:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9825137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgapantoBlu/pseuds/AgapantoBlu
Summary: "You—” Yuuri doesn’t listen. He plants a finger of his healthy hand in the other’s chest and blubbers everything he had thought in every second Viktor had talked to him about himself and his life and the monsters that should have been his family. Yuuri is calm and quiet, Phichit always saidtoo much, but Viktor is the right button to make him snap and now it’s been too long since he’s had these things inside, “—can go to fucking hell, in my book! [...]"Viktor is trying to leave behind his past and family, including the brother who abandoned him, so when Yuuri finds himself facing no other than Alexander Nikiforov, well, he has some things to tell him.***[Sequel of "An Inch Too Much", but it can be read as standalone - Set around an year after the end of canon - Mention of Homophobia and Child Abuse but only slightly]





	

 

**_'Sorry' is not Enough_ **

 

The rink in Paris is filled to the brim. The bleachers are a sea of faceless teeming and vibrating figures in wait for the beginning of the competition and the noise of murmurs and chats, incomprehensible yet growing, like a wave, are enough to paralyze him. His thoughts drown and the denigrating voices in his mind burn like salt on an open wound.

Yuuri brings a hand to his chest, a stubborn attempt at calming his heart down, _and it’s not even my competition!_ , but it makes him feel better. The thought of the Rostelecom Cup waiting for him in a few days joins around his neck, a tight knot, because then _you’ll be completely alone_.

It can’t be helped, he forces a smile on his lips as a camera focuses lazily on him for a moment, and he knows he’s gotten better at lying by now, but it’s fine anyway. He’s doing it just to protect Vitya, after all, so it’s fine.

He keeps on moving through the stands to reach his seat and he’s relieved to finally sit, beside a furious Yurio who won’t stop complaining for being dragged to an event he’s not even related to. The adolescent doesn’t spare him a glance, but neither insult him, which must count as a victory, somewhere.

The cold and detached voice of the announcer calls the competitors’ names and Yuuri’s hand clenches in a fist instinctively.

It was just bad luck, he knows it. Viktor has been sorted for the Throphée de France and the NHK, while he has been assigned to the Cup of China and the Rostelecom Cup. Not competing against each other yet should reassure and motivate them to reach the Grand Prix final, but in truth it’s just another stress, at least for Yuuri. They’ll be apart for so long, because of flights and time zones and kilometers, that they didn’t even get one day to spend together without having to train. And that’s why, not even ten days from his own competition, he’s here to loot at his lover, instead of being on the rink to train.

“ _You don’t have to come, Yuuri,_ ” Viktor had laughed, kissing the tip of his nose and caressing his naked shoulder. Lying under a blanket as thick as a palm and with their legs intertwined, in the dim light on Saint Petersburg’s dawn coming through the windows of their apartment, their home, Yuuri had wondered once more, for a moment, if it weren’t all just a dream from the hangover of his infamous first Grand Prix banquet. The adorable Russian man beside him hadn’t even noticed his distraction. “ _We’ll be in the world’s most romantic city and we won’t even get to visit it, isn’t it horrible?_ ” and Yuuri had answered him with a violent blush on his cheeks and disappearing into a cocoon of blankets.

Viktor skates last. _Obviously._ Unfazed by the season off coaching his fiancé, _the great Viktor Nikiforov_ has already reclaimed majestically his spot on ice with his short program; a marvelous melody with gentle piano notes reflecting perfectly his theme: _domesticity_. It had been quite the surprise for the figure skating world, which had been expecting something incredible and exciting, but Viktor had managed to turn the tables even with something so simple.

His choreography from the day before was a twirling expression of happiness that made Yuuri feel as if something fluffy had been pushed in his chest, like a blanket or a puppy. Watching it reminded him of waking up in the morning to the smell of coffee and Makkachin’s attacks while Viktor’s insufferable morning persona laughed at him from the kitchen; and buying groceries together for far too long because the Russian man kept on throwing things in the cart that he had to place back on the shelves without being noticed; and walking the dog all over the city just to have a chance to ask each others out in impromptu dates; and laughing at the dinner table when Yurio showed up suddenly complaining because they always invited him with less than an hour warning; and doing without a couple of blankets that he’d usually need against the infamous Russian winter just because Viktor is a damn octopus when asleep and he will end up killing Yuuri of hotness — in more than a sense — sooner or later. 

And his Free Skate, oh. That puts the old Eros to shame. Yuuri knows it, he has seen it already in training. It’s so clear that choreographing it Viktor had been only interested in declaring how much sex was exactly included in _his_ domesticity, that his lover had wanted to run and hide in shame more than once. This is the first occasion in which the program will be revealed to the public, and Yuuri can already imagine the meme, the #victuuri tag trending again for who knows how long. He lets out a desperate groan that gets lost in the caos.

When it’s finally his turn, Viktor takes the centre of the ice after a lazy round of the rink, greeting his screaming adoring fans, and he smiles, the monster, when he meets a certain pair of dark eyes in the crowd. Yuuri makes sure to roll them blatantly enough to be caught even from so far, but he softens as the other takes his starting stance.

One minute in and Yurio has already screamed and faked his death or an attack of virulent puking thrice.

Viktor is beautiful the way only art can be. His movements took something from Yuuri in the past year; abandoned the slight rigidity of perfection, now the man chases after his own steps with the cheerfulness of a kid after a butterfly, and his body ‘makes music’. Yuuri used to not understand what the other meant with those words, but now he sees it. And he’s handsome, he’s _beautiful_ , and he’s also unbelievably sensual — and Yuuri strives to ignore the wolf whistle that Chris slips right into his ear when Viktor moves his hand down his neck and his chest, all the way to his waist before he flashes away in a spin combination.

“Did you teach him that?” the Swiss skater asks from his seat in the row at his back, teasing but not maliciously, and Yuuri finds himself somehow saddened that Giacometti is not competing this year.

_Retired_. The word is still bittersweet in his mouth.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Chris,” he mutters instead, striving not to blush and at the same time not to look at the other in pity. By the laughter he hears and the warmth on his face, he deduces he managed only one of his purposes.

Viktor’s performance ends with legs crossed at the ankles and knees bent so deep his shoulders touch the ice, arms spread but wrists one on the other right above his head. Yuuri has a little flashback of the first time he’s seen Eros and thought about getting pregnant on that sight alone. He must be due for triplets just like Yuuko, after this.

In between the deafening cheers and the loud appreciating voices of the commentators, he gets up and touches Yurio’s shoulder without joining the celebrations. “I’m going to meet him after he’s done at the Kiss and Cry,” he screams, trying to get his words across despite the noise. “Want to come along?”

Yuri’s expression is pure disgust. “And see you old geezers getting all gross together? Fuck, no! Get a room or something and let me out of this.”

Yuuri’s certain enough Christophe is not much a better choice, in that regard, but he also has a feeling that the Kazakstan man soon due to make it to the podium has something to do with the choice, so he leaves it at that.

 

***

 

Yuuri has always known Viktor would win. He never doubted it, and thus he also knew his lover would be kidnapped by the chaos of journalists before being dragged on the podium. He had offered to wait for Viktor to be finished with all of that, but the drama king of Russian representative — and Georgi had been quite happy to let go of the title — had declared he’d die if he hadn’t seen his future husband before the press conference. And then he had threatened to skip it altogether, earning Yakov that famous heart-attack he was always claiming. Yuuri hadn’t had any other choice but to promise he’d be there before it all.

Slipping through people in the corridors is easy, especially since they’re all still sitting to wait for the scores of Viktor’s program and the medal ceremony, and Yuuri takes advantage of the moment to close his eyes for a second and take a deep breath, finally away from the suffocating crowd.

That’s how he slams into someone.

He lets out a fast “Sorry!” from his lips, and he bites them, annoyed, realizing he had slipped into English, after talking with  Chris and Yurio, despite Viktor having more than fun in teaching him basic French. He shakes his head to clear it for a moment before, finally, lifting his eyes on the other person with half a “ _Pardonnez_ ” on his tongue.

He chokes on his “ _moi_ ” as soon as his brain registers the sight in front of him.

His first thought is that Viktor has grown, in the order: his body, five years; his hair, seven inches to reach his shoulders; and, for some crazy reason of his, a _beard_. Not that it wouldn’t suit him but Yuuri has spent the last Christmas convincing his fiancé that, no, Yurio was joking, he didn’t look like Santa Claus; and in any case he was shaved and short-haired until five seconds ago so, no, it doesn’t make sense.

It’s just like when in Detroit Yuuri spent sleepless nights with Phichit to study in one week everything they had skipped on for their training in months of lessons: the gears in his brain are moving slowly, striving to try to cooperate toward a shared goal, then at a certain point something snaps and, _oh_ , it’s Viktor’s brother.

Yuuri stops, his mouth half open and the memories of a night stinking of airport with a tired and battered Makkachin sleeping on some blankets in a corner of the room, with Viktor’s voice turned cold by secrets and ugly memories but his face warm and wet against his chest, and _I hate him, Yuuri, I hate him so much, I just wanted him to take me away but he didn’t._

The other man looks surprised and, somewhere in his mind, Yuuri can see why. He doesn’t believe there’s still anyone left in the whole stadium who doesn’t know him at least by his appearance, at least as Viktor’s future husband. The two of them have been the most whispered gossip of the past year and they’re going for a second; it only makes sense that even his lover’s brother knows it. What doesn’t make sense is that Alexander Nikiforov is right here in Paris, right in that rink, right at this competition, today.

Yuuri stares at him. Normally his anxiety would hit by this point, making him blush and stutter, but instead the algid and a bit raw beauty of the man reminds him of the soft, absurd, exaggerated, funny one of his fiancé. It stiffens his shoulders.

_Viktor._

"Uh, Katsuki Yuuri, right?" He speaks English because he hasn’t spoken with his little brother in _twelve years_ and he can’t know that Yuuri can speak Russian, by now. Something boils in his chest and he doesn’t know what it is. “Uhm, congratulations? For the engagement with Viktor?” He smiles a bit from the middle of his beard, _and it’s horrible and it doesn’t suit him and I hate it_. “You two look happy together.”

_Oh_ , Yuuri thinks, as the feeling in his chest moves to his hand to clench in a fist. _So that’s what it is._

He lets his anger free and his knuckles find Alexander’s jaw easily, even under his stupid beard.

 

***

 

“Yakov!”

Yakov is old. Decrepit. He’s ready to retire, has been since when Viktor was sixteen, and his bones crack to remind him of the fact every morning that he wakes up to go to the rink, and to the sounds add all his curses against unknowns.

They told him training the best champions of Russia was an honor, that his job would have filled him with pride, that he’d have found the best of bests in Saint Petersburg. Nobody ever thought about mentioning to his younger and stupider self that there would have been puberal crisis to survive through and scandals to avoid and more drama than a Spanish soap opera to…watch as it unfolded itself because it was always already too late to stop it. Nobody ever told him he’d have had to deal with _Viktor Nikiforov_. Nobody ever even told him what a Viktor Nikiforov was.

A living, breathing, walking _trouble._

“Yakov! Do you see him?! Do you?! Where’s Yuuri?! He promised to come and see me at the Kiss and Cry!”

Yakov is too old for this. Really, too old. And Katsuki had promised — no, _sworn_ — he would have helped him keeping an eye on the ticking bomb that for some reason unknown to the human kind he had consented to marry.

“ _Yakov!_ ”

“QUIT IT, VITYA!”

Viktor seems untouched by his bursts of anger; he has been the reason of so many of those, by now, that they don’t affect him anymore. Instead, on his red suit with the RU letters, in his damn thirty years, in his ‘Versace model’ looks, he crosses his arms on his chest and pouts, _pouts_!

Yakov is _too old_ , period.

“I don’t know where’s Katsuki!” he huffs in the end, throwing his arms up in the air. “He’s probably coming here! Now answer some questions and let’s hurry up!”

“But Yakov—!”

“NOW, VITYA!”

 

***

 

Alexander Nikiforov is confused.

It’s not much for the punch aimed straight to his face by his brother’s fiancé in less than five minutes since their first meeting, no, that he could understand. He even deserved it, probably, _without probably_. What is confusing him is how to behave after.

Had it been a film, he would be probably out cold on the floor now and Katsuki would say some dramatic line to intimate him to never ever come closer to them and he would leave to go back to Viktor’s arms or something. Viten'ka would love it, he was always weak to dramatic and spectacular and cavities sweet things. He’d probably get a paralysis in his face because of the heart shaped smile he took after their mom; he’d scream in joy until everyone in the rink knew about how absolutely smitten for his lover he was — as if his programs hadn’t underlined it enough already —. All in all, it’d be funny. 

But life is not a movie and Katsuki has never thrown a single punch in his whole life, if the way he’s holding his wrist against his stomach hissing curses in some language is any indication.

Alexander doesn’t know what to do. Sure, his jaw is pulsing a bit, now, but he can’t even call it a punch, to be honest. His roommate in Cambridge, the night he got drunk and told him his story, hit him harder. _That’s from your brother, idiot_ , he had said, before quaffing half the beer in the can and then offering him the other half while shaking his head in disappointment. Alex had been grateful to him, _and not for the alcohol._

“Are you alright?” It’s not the right line, he knows. He knew it even before saying it, but he’s even surer when Katsuki straightens up a bit, eyes burning in wrath.

“Don’t ask me if I’m alright after I punched you!” he hisses, skipping on formalities at all, English slipping on his tongue like a razor blade on skin, _I’m going to shave that useless beard of yours, you asshole._ “You don’t get to do that!”

Alexander blinks, _he’s got Viktor’s eyes and it’s unfair_ , to the choice of words, but in the end he chooses that he deserves the hostility.

Viktor and he have something in common, they never understand when it’s time to shut their mouths and keep quiet, so he tries again. “Uh, right… Then can I-”

Katsuki is of a different opinion and in a moment he’s so close that all he can see are those dark and _pissed off_ eyes. “And you know what else you don’t get to do?! You don’t get to show up like this, ten years late and all smiles and congratulations, after you packed your things and abandoned him.”

“I-”

“ _You_ —” Yuuri doesn’t listen. He plants a finger of his healthy hand in the other’s chest and blubbers everything he had thought in every second Viktor had talked to him about himself and his life and the monsters that should have been his family. Yuuri is calm and quiet, Phichit always said _too much_ , but Viktor is the right button to make him snap and now it’s been too long since he’s had these things inside, “—can go to fucking hell, in my book! That’s where you left Vitya, anyway! And since we’re already here, _a dog, really_?! Did you seriously believe it’d be enough to make up for all the times you ignored him and how much he was suffering or did you simply not bother enough to think it through for a bit?”

_I did what I could!_ , but it’s not true, Alexander knows it and so do Katsuki’s eyes and his poisoned words bouncing in hisses against the corridor walls. He knows he deserves this assault, he knows it well, but before he can stop himself he’s already trying to answer.

“I rented him a house…”

“He wouldn’t have needed it if you had just done something _earlier_ or if you had taken him away with you when you left!” This man is different from him; he’s Japanese and black-haired and he’s got dark eyes and he’s shorter and younger, and Alex still feels like he’s screaming against a mirror that sends back to him every single fault he knows he has. Katsuki is a Jiminy Cricket without patience but with a veil of tears stubbornly refusing to fall from his eyes. “And did you expect him to pay bills and food and all he needed to compete if he hadn’t won, uh? He was barely eighteen!”

Alexander’s jaw stiffens. “Viten'ka was already a champion. I knew he wouldn’t have any troubles supporting himself.” _The only good thing I’ve ever done was not doubting he would’ve made it. Don’t take that away from me too._

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT!”

Yuuri cannot believe it. Mari’s face keeps overlapping the man’s in front of him and his ears whistles of her continuous ‘ _I’ll support you whatever you choose to do, Yuuri_ ’. How can this person not see the damage he had done? How can he not know how much pain he caused Viktor just by leaving? He was his brother and Vitya still believed it, that he was different, and he had vanished without looking back once. Not to mention…

“Where were you when your father was drunk and beat him?” It shoots out of his lips like a bullet and Alexander widens his eyes, pales, stiffens, _bullseye in the heart_. “What was so _important_ that you couldn’t leave your room to help your little brother? You have no right to act like he didn’t exist for years and then leave him a present just to appease your guilty conscience before disappearing for good; and you have no right to go MIA for years, not a message or a call of a fucking anything, just to pop out one day _in front of me_ to congratulate us on our engagement! That’s not how it works!”

Now there’s someone watching them, eyes widened and surprised, but none of them cares. Alexander really should shut up, but he’s an idiot.

“ _I know!_ ” and this, at least, is true. “I’m sorry, alright?! I hurt him, I was an asshole, everything I could possibly do wrong in that situation I did, _I know_!” Katsuki doesn’t look impressed, he’s got a disgusted expression on his face and eyes that say he’s _hoping_ Alexander realizes that it’s all for him. Alexander knows, and he runs a hand on his face, tired. “Listen, I just wanted to watch him skate. I would have left without saying anything if I didn’t bump into you by chance.”

Loud cheers come from the run. The medal ceremony must have started and Yuuri is missing it and has broken his promise, but that’s not the reason why his shoulders fall, crushed, and the strength that pushed him into the confrontation leaves him.

He can’t believe it, really. Now the need to see Viktor is visceral, it twists his stomach painfully.

“Not only you don’t understand, but you also didn’t change at all.” He doesn’t yell nor he hisses, now. His words are a weakened whisper as he shakes his head, feeling cold in his vein as if they were filled with the eyes he’s so used to. It’s been a while since he came back into the heated corridors of the rink, he should be well warmed up by now, he knows he normally would be, but instead he’s still trembling with the tension in his muscles. “It’s true that you’re only good at pretending not to see.”

Alexander doesn’t answer that. He’s different from Viktor because his surprise barely shows through, in the slightly widened eyes and the line of tight lips that softens up a bit.

To Yuuri, it’s revolting. He walks around the man as if was nothing but an soulless obstacle on his path, and he’s half relieved when he doesn’t hear any footstep following him as he leaves. The other half feels indignation flaring up again at this lack of fight.

 

***

 

Alex lets him leave feeling one step away from puking.

He’s always known what he did to Viten'ka, he’s not an idiot. Back then, he used to tell himself he couldn’t be blamed for the things his father did, for the lies his mother said and for trying to protect himself first. He had no illusions regarding his father’s apparent favoritism: Alexei could prefer him to Viten'ka because Viten'ka was stubborn in defying him, what with skating and ballet, but if Alexander had ever dared to oppose him, he knew he would receive no better treatment. Hell, had he told the man he wanted to be a painter, he would have felt the belt twice harder than Viten'ka; at least skating had brought his brother a lot of money and sponsors.

It had taken him heading downstairs for breakfast one morning and seeing his brother’s short hair — so uneven and ruffled around reddened eyes and a bruising cheek —, while the other hurried up in leaving the kitchen as soon as he got him, to understand he had fucked up. He had fucked up so bad his brother didn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore. _That’s not Viten'ka_ , had been his first thought, shocked, but in the two successive years he had seen the results of what his family had done: the walls and the masks and the girls his brother barely kissed and only when they came over and he could feel their father watching, and the fake smiles and the gruesome practice from the break of dawn to deep into the night. Alexander had been almost sure Yakov wasn’t keeping Viktor for so long — the man would have never allowed his best horse to overwork himself into an early grave —, but he had also been smart enough not to ask his brother where he spent the rest of the time, especially in front of their parents.

By the time he left, Viktor and he had stopped being brothers since a long time already. Even ‘acquaintances’ seemed too much of a word for what they knew about each others. The flat had been exactly what Katsuki said, just a way to shut up his guilt and nothing more. Alexander had known he had fucked up and his way to fix it had been to stay far enough not to hurt his brother ever again.

He turns to watch Katsuki stomping heavily down the corridor and he realizes with slight bitterness he has fucked up _again_. Leaving, _abandoning_ , as the Japanese man said, is the wrong thing to do and he just repeated it. Truly, he’s the poorest excuse of an older brother.

Katsuki stops a member of the staff and Alexander smiles, ironic, watching them talk. Is he going to be thrown out?, banned from attending any possible competition the great Nikiforov will ever take part to, as if he were a stalker or a pervert? It would be a fitting punishment, in the end, and Katsuki looked like the kind of man who’d be perfectly happy to know he’s made sure the monster of his lover’s past will never come close to the latter again. A lot ‘knight in shining armor’ style, if the concept works for homosexual couples too.

Alexander has no idea; he knows nothing of gays if not that his brother is one of them. He has never bothered with the topic, actually.

He waits for the security to come. He doesn’t think that maybe being thrown in the snow will make him feel better with himself, but it’s worth a try. Or maybe he just wants an excuse not to come back again, _sorry they banned me I can’t come to see you little brother_ , or something like that.

Katsuki is right, he didn’t change at all.

Katsuki is also coming back, marching like a soldier toward his destiny, with a pen in a hand and a piece of paper in the other. Maybe he wants to stab him in the eye?

Alex stiffens, ready for the blow, but he only manages to exhale heavily when the other man slams both things against his chest. His hands come up to grab them instinctively when he feels them falling, but beside that he stays there, unsure about what to do.

Yuuri glares at him so hard Alexander feels one step from bursting out in flames. “Don’t get me wrong,” he warns, and now he’s back to hissing, as before. “ _I_ will tell Vitya I think you’re just a piece of shit who does not deserve him, but _this time_ at least I want it to be his choice ultimately, and nobody else’s, especially not mine. I would never do something like that to him.”

Alexander frowns, eyes running from the objects in his hands to the hostile man in front of him. Is he supposed to write his apologies on the paper? It’s a bit small to hold all he knows he has to say, and Katsuki probably agrees, so what? A written promise to never come back to Viktor’s life?, like a contract?, should he also sign it?

“Write your damn phone number!” Katsuki practically explodes, even if somehow he manages to keep his voice down. It must be a Japanese thing; Alexander knows for a fact Russians are not like that, at least not in his family. Except maybe Viktor; he managed to do something similar in a recent interview, when a journalist criticized his relationship with ‘an adversary’. It was Katsuki who rubbed off Viten'ka, or the opposite? “ _Hurry up_ , I don’t have all day! _I_ want to be there for him when he’ll get off the ice!”

 

***

 

Viktor smiles to the camera only because Yakov is glaring like he’s one step from killing him, but it’s so fake and tense that Phichit doesn’t hesitate in jumping on the first place step of the podium and pinching him on the back without being noticed, faking interest in a commemorative photo. Otabek, the traitor, imitates him with his bronze medal and flashes go off again, unstoppable.

“Viktor, you know I adore Yuuri, but I don’t think it’s the case to spit on a gold just because you didn’t get to see him for five minutes,” Phichit teases, with no malice in his eyes as he winks at the photographer who’s gotten closer.

Otabek’s mouth corner lifts of precisely half a millimeter. It may be to laugh of the champion of because of the Russian teenager on the bleachers who’s yelling and waving a bear plush; in any case it’s a miracle.

They posed for more pictures, show off their medals, laugh, accept flowers. It seems endless until the moment Viktor catches a movement beside Yakov. The way the man relaxes tells a lot about who the newcomer can be — no one from the Russian team, just to mention one —.

The second thing Viktor notices is that something’s not right.

Even from afar is clear that Yuuri has his shoulders tense and his fists clenched, expression focused as if he’s preparing for a competition, before anxiety kicks in, but with his eyebrows furrowed. He speaks with Yakov in low words, his lips too fast to be read, and the coach widens his eyes in return. Yuuri has been staring at Viktor the whole time, Yakov looks at him as soon as they’re done talking.

“What’s going on?” Phichit may not know Feltsman, but he knows Yuuri well enough to know that he rarely gets angry, and when he does the best thing is to hide somewhere and pray for the poor idiot who will face that wrath. Yuuri, right now, is positively furious. Even Otabek stiffens a bit, and blinks in surprise.

Viktor doesn’t answer. He flashes the cameras one last brilliant smile and then he jumps off the podium. He glides toward the entrance of the rink with his arms spread wide and calling “Yuuri~!” with all the enthusiasm he can fake. He’s hugging the other tight before the photographers can notice his expression.

“Yuuri,” he repeats the word in his neck, and his intonation is completely different. There’s a misture of worry and the beginning of a scolding, just to remind the other that they’re a couple and they face things together, no matter the situation, but the answer is a gesture of denial of the head against his cheek.

“Later.” It sounds like a promise and Viktor decides he can accept it. Anyway, he doesn’t want all the journalists around them to stick their noses in something that upset his fiancé so much, so it’s not that big of a renounce.

He pulls back to look him in the face and instead he only sees closed eyelids. Lips on his, thin fingers wrapping around his wrists, it’s the first time Yuuri starts a kiss in front of someone — he’s not big on PDA — and obviously he has do it in front of a crow that passes the few thousands.

The brain registers new flashes, screams that increase in volume behind them and a cuss in Yakov’s low voice, then it shuts off completely and lets Viktor bend his head a bit to the side to deepen the contact.

Whatever happened, they’ll take care of it later.

 

***

 

Viktor doesn’t call. Alexander tells himself he was expecting it.

He cries anyway, and he does so laughing at the thought of what his father would have to say about it.

**Author's Note:**

> I may write a third installment for this series, I have it in mind but I'm also quite caught in some Mafia!AUs and all my other stories... I don't know, we'll see what happens ^^"
> 
> A little note about the names: I chose to go with different addressing names depending on who was thinking about who, so the same way Viktor uses "Yuuri" while Alexander uses "Katsuki", also Yuuri uses "Vitya" which is apparently more endearing while Alexander uses "Viten'ka" which I seemed to understand - please correct me if I'm wrong - is more used with children. Not sure, I liked the idea though.
> 
> See you next level, guys!
> 
> Agap
> 
>  
> 
> P.S.: Tumblr is @agapantoblu


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